The Case of the Practising Murderer
by bigfatgoth
Summary: A three pipe problem!
1. Chapter 1

After Holmes' timely return from his encounter with Professor Moriarty, I had, at his request, sold my Kensington practice, and returned to our rooms in Baker Street. The mood was high, and we dined out, watched theatre, went to concerts and enjoyed weekends away in the country. We enjoyed fishing in the Lake District; walks in the Yorkshire Dales; and bicycling in the Fens. There were even a few cases that entertained my friend and myself. But as the months drew on, his state returned once again to the all too familiar state of lethargy that he was wont to fall into. I regularly attempted to rouse him from this black mood, but he seemed determined to remain depressed. Pressing the matter would end with him locked in his bedroom, scraping on his violin until all hours.

* * *

My final despair was reached when I returned from my club on a Friday evening. As I walked through the door I was greeted by Mrs Hudson, who seemed to be flustered.  
"Are you quite alright, Mrs Hudson?" I asked.

"He's in one of his moods, Doctor," she replied, with a hint of annoyance in her voice.

"Oh," I said, and pulled back my shoulders before I headed up the stairs.

I had been gone less than six hours, and in this time, Holmes had managed to create piles of debris around the room; one placed so as to make it rather difficult to open the door. I pushed it back, and the pile tipped over. Picture frames, papers, crockery, linen and other assorted clutter scattered all over the floor. I squeezed myself through the small gap I had made, and surveyed the scene.

The room was in a state of complete untidiness; not a single thing that I could see was in its appropriate place. At first, I did not see Holmes, but a rising pillar of smoke led me to find him sitting under one of the windows, leaning against the wall. His pipe was rested on a dirty supper plate. Holmes was looking straight up at the ceiling, giggling inanely.

I was worried. "Holmes!" I exclaimed. But as I got closer to him, I saw the empty glass bottle on the floor; the syringe in the open case; and the spots of blood in the elbow of his shirt sleeve. I stooped down to his level. "Holmes?" I asked, "Can you hear me?" I received no reply, and so clicked my fingers close to his face. He looked at me, and responded by laughing loudly. I frowned with disapproval. "Holmes, how can you risk such damage to the intellect with which you have been endowed?" Again, my friend did not reply. There was little I could do, and I resolved to try and neaten some of the disorder that lay before me.

It was not an easy task; Holmes' system of organising his belongings had no real foundation, but I did my best to return things to a state of tidiness. My efforts seemed to please Mrs. Hudson, who came up to offer us some supper.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said.  
"Would Mr. Holmes like anything?" she asked, displeased.

I looked at my friend, who seemed now to be giggling rather more quietly to himself, still sitting in the same position. "I don't think so, Mrs. Hudson, thank you."

She nodded and went back downstairs. As she left, she muttered to herself. "Well, at least I can get through the door, now."

Mrs. Hudson's soup was delicious, and this combined with the exertion of picking through the piles of property scattered around the room, made me fell quite ready for bed. I stepped over to my friend. Now his condition seemed much changed. Rather than giggling inanely, he seemed much more subdued. His eyes were closed.

"Holmes," I said, attempting to rouse him. "Come on, man! Holmes!"

He did not move. I held a light close to him, and could see the flushing of his face. I gently opened one of his eyes, and observed how very small his pupils were. I shook my head; these were the tell-tale signs of his having taken morphine. I was not sure whether he had, in fact, taken this instead of the cocaine, or as well. I was almost angry, as Holmes knew very well, perhaps more than most, what a dangerous thing it was. I checked his pulse and his breathing, and fortunately I did not believe him to be in any real danger. I hauled him to his feet, but he made no effort to stand. I threw him over my shoulder, causing me to wince; Holmes was not a heavy man but I had been feeling my old wound in the cold weather. I took him through to his bedroom, where I laid him on his side on the bed, and left him to sleep it off.

* * *

Holmes was still asleep the next morning at breakfast, and I left him in bed as I ate my boiled eggs. I did not wish to fall into a brown study myself, so resolved to go to my club once again. I checked on Holmes again, and found his condition to be satisfactory. With that, I was on my way.

My morning at the club was largely uneventful. I spent some time reading the newspapers, and later had lunch with friends. This raised my spirits somewhat, and I went back to the reading room to enjoy a volume I had taken from the library entitled, 'A Picture of Dorian Gray.'

I had not long been sitting when I was disturbed by an acquaintance of mine; a medical student named Clarke. He was fresh from his textbooks, and he had recently begun training at Charing Cross Hospital. He had been working at the club as a clerk to raise funds. I had considered him to be inexperienced but eager, and thought that he would become a fine doctor. He rushed over to me, seizing the arms of my chair.

"Dr. Watson!" he said, panting. "You have to come with me!"

I was somewhat surprised. "What?" I asked. "What has happened?"

"Please, Sir, follow me!" he said, and hurried out of the room. I abandoned my book, and followed after him. I had barely time to retrieve my hat and coat on the way out.

In the street outside lay a quite terrible scene. Two Hansoms appeared to have collided, turning one was onto it's side. They were now quite attached by splintered wood, one to the other. One staggering cabman was tending to a horse with an injury to his hindquarters, and another beast was being held further up the street by a boy. I looked at Clarke, and we both ran over to the cabman.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Driving like a bloody idiot, he was!" spat the cabman. "My apologies, Sir," he added, shamefaced. "He was all over the road. There was nothing I could do to get out of his way! Then his horse took fright, and now we have this! Three sheets to the wind, no doubt," he said.  
"Are you all right?" I asked, noticing a trickle of blood from under his hat.

"Just a scratch, Sir, thank you. I'm more worried about the horse."  
"Very well. See that you clean and dress the wound."  
"Yes Sir, thank you, Sir," said the cabman.

I looked around. "Where is the other cabman, Clarke?" I asked.

Clarke also glanced around. "I cannot see any other," he said.

"He's in the cab, drunk as a Lord!" called a voice from the other side of the street. A woman was pointing to the fallen cab.

I rushed over. As I did so, Holmes' methods occurred to me; how would the driver end up inside the cab? When I arrived, I had my answer. He had evidently been thrown from the vehicle, and had it landed on top of him. He was saved from a more crushing blow by one of the wheels, which had ended up in such a position as to create a small hole beneath the wreckage.

We pulled him out. He was not a young man, and must have been around thirty. I leaned down to him, and found that he did not smell of drink; an unusual find in a cabman on a cold afternoon. He did not appear to be badly hurt, aside from a few grazes and bruises from his fall to earth. These were obscured as the fellow was rather dirty with mud and soot. Clarke tried to rouse him by gently tapping his face.

"Dr. Watson!" he said. "The man is freezing cold,"

I confirmed this as I took the man's wrist to check his pulse. It was weak, and slow. His cracked lips and sunken eyes showed severe dehydration. He was in shock. As we tended to him, the poor creature died before our very eyes. There was nothing we could do.

We checked his person for identification, since the other cabman did not appear to know the man. We found nothing, but were joined presently by the man's wife.

"Avi! Avi!" she shrieked, running over to where we were crouching on the ground. "Whatever has happened to you?"

"He's drunk!" shouted the other cabman from across the street.

"My Avi don't drink!" she yelled back, in an irate manner.

I beckoned to the woman, in order to prevent the argument going further.

"I am a Doctor, Madam, Dr. Watson."  
"What's wrong with him?" she asked, crying.

"I am afraid, Madam, that he is dead."

I expected her to respond with hysterics, but she remained remarkably steadfast. "Tell me, has he been ill?" I asked.

She did not answer me at first, as she was pawing at her prostrated husband and calling his name. However, Clarke took hold of her hands, and she answered.

"He's been awful sick this morning, but he said he felt better."

"Anything else?" I asked.

She eyed me with a suspicion that softened when I smiled. "He had the shaking awful bad, and took to his bed. He couldn't even walk with the aching of his arms and legs. And he drank more water than as we could fetch to him."

My guard was up. "It is very important, Madam. Was there anything else?"

"No," she said.

I was relieved. The man had no fever, and was probably suffering from dehydration and overwork. I knew cabmen who worked fifteen hours a day, six days a week.  
"There was something peculiar," she said, almost absent-mindedly. "His voice."

"His voice?" asked Clarke.

"Yeah. It went all high, like that of a youngster."

My worst fears were realised. I pulled off my hat and used it to cover my mouth as I breathed in with a feeling of dread.

"Dr. Watson?" asked Clarke, surprised.

I stood up, and bade him do the same. I leaned close to him. "Cholera," I whispered.  
"Good God!" said Clarke. "What do we do?"

"Please will you immediately notify the Medical Officer for Health. He will recognise the matter as being most urgent."

Clarke nodded and carried out his task. I waited on the street with the wife of the man, who quickly arranged for the interment of the body. I was surprised; such people often found it difficult to raise the required funds so quickly. The woman explained that her husband was Jewish and must be buried as soon as possible. I enquired no further.

Men came for the body, and I warned them to handle it with care. More came to recover the cabs, and the other cabman decided to help.  
"I never thought for a minute the poor fellow might be killed, Sir!" he said, apologetically.

I took my leave of them. By now it was almost seven o'clock and I decided to return to Baker Street.


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes was still in bed when I reached our rooms. It was quite cold, and all was in darkness, save for the light from the street. Holmes had pulled the bedclothes around his thin form, and was curled up into a tight ball at one end of the bed. I shook my head and went downstairs to speak with Mrs. Hudson.

"Hello, Doctor!" said Mrs. Hudson, cheerfully. "Would you like some supper?"  
"That would be most welcome, Mrs. Hudson, most welcome," I replied.

Mrs. Hudson smiled, and turned to leave. I called her attention once more. "Have you seen Mr. Holmes today?"  
Her happy look waned. "Yes, doctor. I have seen him."  
"Did he seem well to you?"  
"He was muttering to himself and speaking like a child."  
I smiled at her. "Has he had anything to eat?"  
"No, Sir, he refused everything. He wouldn't even take a drink. And he wouldn't let me light the fire nor set a light."

"I see. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." She went into the kitchen, and I upstairs.

I went into Holmes' room and exposed his face from his linen nest. "Holmes?" I asked.

His eyes snapped open, and they held a wild look, staring hard at me. Then his look softened. "Watson," he whispered. "What is the time?"

"It is half past eight."

"I have been asleep for four hours?" he asked.

"It is Saturday, Holmes."  
"Saturday?"

"Yes, Holmes, Saturday." I said, and sat down in the chair at the foot of the bed.

Holmes screwed up his eyes and appeared to be deep in concentration. "Saturday," he muttered to himself.

"I cannot imagine, for the life of me, why you do this to yourself, Holmes!" I said, sternly.

Holmes pulled his sheets back over his head.  
"You know better than most men what dangers lie within that syringe! Why do you do it, Holmes?"

Holmes groaned. "My mind grows stagnant! I need some stimulation for my idle brain."  
"Have you no cases?"  
"None."  
"And the pile of correspondence on your writing desk?"  
"The minutiae of the lives of society wives. Can I help find a lost hat? A lost cat? A thieving servant? Hardly what one could call a case, Watson."  
"Why not indulge in something else, Holmes? Puzzles, books, or sports?"

Holmes groaned again.

I sighed, deeply. "I don't know how I can help you, Holmes."

"I am not in need of your services, Doctor. Please leave me alone."

"Have you eaten today?"  
"I am not hungry."

"Have you had anything to drink."  
"Nor am I thirsty. Doctor, have you no other business to attend to?"  
"Very little, since I sold my practice, Holmes. You simply cannot go without eating and drinking properly, Holmes."

"I have, on occasion, gone for days without water, and longer without food."  
"And you have, on occasion, become quite ill."

Holmes scoffed. I could see that my ministrations were having no effect on him. "As you please, I shall leave you alone."  
"Thank you, Doctor."

"Would you at least have something to drink?"  
"If doing so would hasten your departure, by all means."

I was a little hurt by his last statement, but I arranged for Mrs. Hudson to bring him a drink. I retired to my own room to continue building a small model boat I had begun the previous week.

* * *

Holmes manner seemed to be a little improved the next day. He ventured out both from his bed and from his room, and changed his clothes. He had few words for me, and did all morning scrape on his violin and look out of the window on to the street. His manner was terse, and the noise unbearable. I ventured out for a walk.

Holmes was not at home when I returned. Mrs. Hudson did not know where he had gone, and I was in no mood to chase after him. I scrubbed myself, and had my clothes cleaned. My mood was low as I waited for the news of an outbreak of cholera. This would be grave news indeed, as the last great epidemic had killed almost six thousand people in the capital. Physicians were not immune from the disease, and some had died from contracting the cholera whilst tending the sick. I only hoped that the Medical Officer for Health could isolate the source of the infection before more deaths occurred. I was irked as I realised that I had left the book I had borrowed from the club library in the reading room, and so chose a volume on diseases from my own shelves. Mrs. Hudson prepared some supper, and soon after I retired.

The next few days passed without incident, and as far as I could ascertain, the feared epidemic did not materialise. I began to feel more at ease as I walked around the city.

* * *

Later in the week I was walking in the grounds of the University, having taken lunch with an old college friend. Here I again met Clarke, who was returning from his studies.

"Dr. Watson!" he said, and hurried across the courtyard.

"Clarke," I replied. "I trust you are well?"

"Yes, thank you," he said. "I am sorry I have not contacted you, but I have been, well, investigating."  
I smiled; he was a dedicated and energetic young man. He reminded me a little of Holmes in our younger days. But I was unsure of what he meant. "Investigating?" I asked.

"Yes, Doctor. The cabman did indeed die from cholera. The authorities were waiting for more cases in the locale, but there has not been a single one in either his place of work or his place of business."

"Very fortunate," I said.

"But so unlikely!" said Clarke, excitedly. "I think there must be some other force involved in the situation!" He spoke rapidly, almost without pause. "There should have been at least one other case. The man had not travelled outside of the city for some years, and even then only as far as Kent. There must have been another case, and as far as we can conclude, there was not. So how did this man contract the cholera?"

"I don't know," I said. I admit that it was not something I had thought of.

"Perhaps there has been some inferred immunity to the disease created in the inhabitants of the city! Cases of cholera of late have been relatively few. I mean to study it!"

"Were the family unvaccinated?"

"Yes."

"Strange," I said. "For if the source cannot be found, there is a present danger to public health."  
"And yet, it would appear that there is not," said Clarke.

I was quiet for a moment. "Perhaps we have been lucky."

"Luck, Doctor? Medicine does not function by luck!" said Clarke, excitedly.

"Good luck with your investigation," I said.

He bade me farewell, and hurried away. I smiled; he was certainly a keen young man.

I was a little perplexed. Certainly cases of cholera were not isolated. There ought to have been more. But there were not. I could not explain it. I perused my volume on disease, and journals in the University library, but was no clearer on the matter. I decided to take the matter to Holmes. He had been in and out of Baker Street over the last few days. He had returned home and was once again occupied with untidying our rooms.

"Holmes, could- what the devil?"

I crouched as Holmes drew a revolver and fired three shots into the wall.

"Hmm," he said, and replaced the revolver.

I was speechless and remained hunched over for a moment. "What on earth?" I said.

"Minor case from Lestrade. Hardly worth my time."  
"Is the matter resolved?" I asked. I was somewhat perturbed by his behaviour, but this was the first conversation in almost a week, and I did not want to end it too quickly.

"Piffle," said Holmes. "It was no match for my talents."

"I see."

Holmes sighed. "In the sea of London, there are only small fish. Pickpockets and horse thieves."

"Something will come up." In my surprise at the indoor revolver-practice, I had forgotten my own matter. "Actually, this may interest you."

I proceeded to tell him of my recent experiences. To begin with, he did not seem interested; but he did not dismiss the story out of hand.

"Cholera is easily transmitted from person to person?"  
"Yes. It is usually down to water contamination. It would be very unlikely for only one person to contract it."  
"And this 'Clarke' is investigating?"  
"Yes. He seems very keen."  
Holmes pressed his fingertips together, and stared straight ahead. He was deep in concentration. I knew better than to interfere. I continued my studies, before leaving Holmes for bed.


	3. Chapter 3

When I rose, Holmes was gone. I sat down to a glorious breakfast prepared by Mrs Hudson. As I was finishing my eggs, Holmes burst in, soaking from the rain, and joined me at the table. Mrs Hudson brought him some tea.

"More deaths," said Holmes.

"From cholera?" I asked.

"No." Holmes' expression was grave.

"From what?"

"All sorts of infectious disease. All isolated cases. Erycipelas, fevers, enteric fever."

"Very unusual."

"I am convinced there is a connection."  
"Between what?" I asked.

"Between these cases and that of your cabman."  
"But he died from cholera!" I knew that there were some large gaps in Holmes' knowledge, but on medicine he was very well informed; sometimes moreso than I.

"I realise that, Watson."

"Then I do not understand."

"Neither do I."

We resumed our breakfast in silence, pondering the situation.

As we sat down for a smoke, Mrs Hudson entered with a telegram.

"From Lestrade!" said Holmes, excitedly. "I asked to be informed of any more unexpected deaths from infectious diseases. Watson, call a cab."

I knew from his instruction that I was to go too. I hailed a cab in the street, and Holmes joined me.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Charing Cross Hospital."

"What for?"

"To see a body."

* * *

We arrived at the hospital and I was ushered in through a side-door by Holmes. Inside there was a hallway, in which Inspector Lestrade was waiting, looking at his watch.

"I say, Mr Holmes. You took your time!" said Lestrade, jokingly.

"It was the fault of the boy, for we came as soon as we got the message. Where is the body?"

"In here. I still don't see what you are looking for, Mr Holmes. It is a death by camp fever, pure and simple."

Holmes ignored him, and rushed through the open door. Lestrade and I stood back as he drew his magnifying glass and pored over the body. When he had finished, he rolled the body over.

"Good God man, have a little respect for the dead!" said Lestrade as Holmes handled the body somewhat roughly.

"I could do the poor fellow no greater respect than to find the cause of his death," said Holmes.

"But I told you-" Lestrade was interrupted by Holmes.

"A-Ha!" cried Holmes, grasping the leg of the body. "Tell me, Lestrade, what did this man do for a living?"

"He was a coalman."

"An honest man?"  
"Yes, by all accounts. He was not known to the police."

Holmes looked toward me, biting his lip. The familiar glint was in his eyes. "Watson, look at this."  
I went to him and looked through the glass at the skin. I saw nothing.

"Here!" said Holmes, using a bodkin to point out the mark.

There was a tiny prick-mark in the skin, almost unnoticeable. It had a tiny butterfly-shaped bruise around it. One might not have even seen it without a powerful glass. However, I failed to see that it was anything of note. A coalman

Lestrade also looked, and came to the same conclusion as I. He looked at Holmes, perplexed, waiting for an explanation. Holmes seemed to be waiting for us to solve the problem for ourselves. We could not.

"This is what I have been looking for!" said Holmes. "I think somebody has been infecting people deliberately."

"I hardly think a tiny mark is evidence for that!" said Lestrade.

"But I have found similar marks on six other bodies these last two days. All young, strong men, all from the working classes, all isolated cases.

"What does this mean?" asked Lestrade.

"Noone in London is safe."

Holmes promised to investigate the matter. Lestrade left for Scotland Yard and we for Baker Street. The mood was grave inside. Holmes picked up one of his books, and perused it for a possible suspect.

"As I thought, this villain is unheard of." Holmes threw the book across the room.

"What gain would there be in infecting cab and coalmen?" I asked.

"I don't know," said Holmes, "but I mean to find out. Would you pass the slipper"

Holmes lit a pipe and sat smoking. "Do you mind if I read some of your medical books?"  
"Not at all, Holmes," I said.

I amused myself with my boat until evening, although concentration was difficult given the gravity of the situation. Holmes read seven or eight of my books at incredible speed. At six o'clock, Mrs Hudson came in.

"Visitor for you," she said.

"Send him in," said Holmes. Mrs Hudson departed.  
"Actually, it is for you, Watson."  
"How do you know this?" I asked.

"The chap is wearing university robes, and from his walk and youth, it is Clarke, of whom you spoke."

I nodded to Holmes, impressed as always.

Clarke entered, dabbing his face with his handkerchief. He had been running.

"Dr Watson!" he cried, panting. "I have some evidence for you!"

"Yes?" said Holmes, before I could speak.

"Good evening Mr Holmes!" said Clarke. He handed Holmes a fold of papers, which Holmes read eagerly.  
"I have found strange marks on victims of infectious diseases. They are isolated cases, and all young, fit working folk." A large smile was on his face.

Holmes beamed. "You discovered this yourself?"  
"Yes, Sir."

"My boy, you have the makings of a detective!"

Clarke beamed. He again dabbed at his face with his handkerchief.

"Have you found anything else?" asked Holmes.

"Yes, Sir." Clarke's face was pale and he seemed to be unbalanced on his legs. He must have run a long way indeed. "May I sit down?"  
"Of course!" I said, and pulled the armchair closer to him. He sat, heavily; almost falling into the chair.

"Go on," said Holmes.

"There were several things that connected the people. As far as I know, they did not know eachother, though they may have met. They all had families. They were all men."  
"How many cases have you come across?" asked Holmes.

"Nine," said Clarke.

I smiled at Holmes; he had only managed seven.

"Anything else?" said Holmes.

"May I have some water?" asked Clarke. He was still breathing heavily.

"Are you quite all right, Clarke?" I asked.  
"Yes sir. Thank you. So, they were all men with families. Three had been employed in the Royal Navy."  
"Yes, I noticed tattoos," said Holmes.

"They all lived in this area," said Clarke, and rifled through the papers to find a map, with coloured marks on it.

"Hmm," Holmes looked at the map carefully. He got up and went to his desk, and drew a circle on the map with a pair of compasses.

We three looked at the circle. At the centre was the university.

"I should have drawn such," said Clarke.

Holmes smiled. "Next time."

He seemed happy with his new protégé.

* * *

Clarke joined us for dinner. He and I talked long about the situation but Holmes stayed quiet. He ate little and was very pensive, pressing his fingertips together. As we talked, Clarke seemed to get more breathless. He began to cough as he spoke.

"Clarke?" I said. He pulled at his shirt.

He composed himself, and stopped coughing. But his voice was wheezy when he spoke.  
"Suddenly I am rather tired," he said. "Perhaps I should return home."

I nodded. But when he spoke, the colour drained from his face, his eyes closed, and he fell upon his knees. Holmes was up before I was, and picked him up. Together we carried him to the couch. He breathed noisily.

"Clarke!" I said. "Clarke!"

"What is it, doctor?" asked Holmes.  
I did not reply. "Clarke!" He opened his eyes. He tried to talk, but he could not. I ran for my bag.

I was only away from his side for a few seconds, but when I returned, he breathed no longer. Holmes was bent over him. I checked his pulse; there was none. Clarke was dead.


	4. Chapter 4

I almost fell back into a chair. Holmes looked at me and I shook my head. There was nothing I could do. I sat staring at Clarke while Holmes sent for Lestrade.

"He would have made a fine doctor," I said on Holmes' return.

"We shall solve the case, Watson. We shall." He placed his hand on my shoulder.

Lestrade arrived within the hour and arranged for the removal of the body. Holmes accompanied it, while I was too weary and stayed behind. Mrs Hudson brought me some brandy.

* * *

It was the small hours of the morning before Holmes returned. I could not sleep, so was still in the lounge. He looked solemn.

"I found the same mark on him. On his arm."

"Oh,"

"This is quite the puzzle, Watson." Holmes sat in his chair and pressed his fingertips together. "Why would somebody deliberately infect people with a disease? And why Clarke? He does not fit with the others."

"No."

"What is his background?"  
"He is an orphan. He lives in a room near the university. His only sister died in childbirth a few years ago, along with the child. One of the reasons he became a doctor, I think."

Holmes looked at me sympathetically; he could see I was veering off the point.

"There must be another connection," said Holmes. "Lestrade was kind enough to give me a list of names of the deceased. Tomorrow, we shall investigate."

* * *

We set off to the first address next morning. It was a basement room in the university district. The windows were filthy and the brickwork was in a poor state. A young girl of about 13 opened the door.

Holmes smiled at her. "Is this the former residence of Nathan Hope?"

"He was my father," said the girl sadly. "And he's dead."

"We know that, and I am very sorry. Is your mother at home?"

"She's dead and all. Just us now."

Holmes peered in and saw six or seven other, younger children, sat miserably on the floor. "We need some information," said Holmes, and handed the girl ten shillings. Her eyes lit up from her dirty face.

"What?" she asked, looking somewhat happy for a recently orphaned child.

"Your father was a labourer?"

"Yeah,"

"Where did work?"

"Here and about. Wherever he was sended to."

"Where was he last working?"

"At some rich house. At the university."

Holmes seemed to come to a conclusion in his mind, and pressed his index finger to his lips.

"Thank you, my dear," said Holmes, and whisked my away from the door. The girl closed it, and galloped off down the street.

"I have a theory, Watson. I need your help, are you quite up to it?"  
"Of course, Holmes," I said. My mood was lifted a little by the contented expression on his face.

He had a list of names in his hand. He tore it in half roughly, but it divided perfectly and I was given half of the names.

"Enquire after these men. Find out if they had any connection to the university, and specifically to whom or to where within it." Without another word, he leapt into a cab and was off, leaving me standing there. My next appointment was a few streets away, so I walked.

My list led me to a small terraced house. It was neat, and had a small garden at the front with carrots and potatoes planted. It was the home of the cabman, Avraham Smith. I knocked the door.

"Yes?" asked a woman, peering around the door.

"I am Dr Watson. I've come to ask about your husband."  
"Again? Is there no peace for the dead?" she hung her head. "Best you come in, then."

I was led into the ground floor room. There were 4 small children sitting around the floor, packing things into boxes. Mrs Smith commanded them in Yiddish and they left us alone. She seemed to want me to speak first.

"He was a cabman?"

"Yes."  
"Did he take a lot of fares to the university?"

"He took a lot of fares to a lot of places, Sir. I suppose he did."

"Has someone else been around asking about your husband?"  
"Everyone and their dog, Sir! The police, Mr Clarke, that wiry fellow with the glasses,"

"Wiry fellow?" I asked.

"From some flan thropist group. Wanted to know lots about how he died, and gave us some money to tide us over."  
"Are you leaving?"  
"We are to go and live with my brother's family in Manchester."  
I nodded. I felt a great sympathy for her plight.

I felt I had all the information I needed and took my leave.

The story was very similar at 3 other residences I visited. However, only one other had been visited by the wiry fellow. It seemed suspicious but I wondered whether there might be some innocent explanation for his presence. However, I was not as familiar with London Society as Holmes, and so kept my information under my hat until I returned to Baker Street.

There I found Holmes, sitting cross legged on the floor, surrounded by papers. Although this was not an unusual sight, his furrowed brow and quiet mutterings told me that he was deeply embroiled in the case. He waved me towards a chair.

"I-" I barely opened my mouth to speak when I was interrupted by Holmes.

"You visited the cabman's widow, the fishmonger's widow, the farrier's son, and the street-seller's brother. You found that they had all been visited by Clarke, they all had something to do with the university, and that two had been visited by a wiry fellow making enquiries."

I nodded to Holmes; for once again he had the information before me. "Indeed!"

Holmes smiled wryly and jumped up. "I, however, have been slightly more successful!" He hopped among the papers to the mantelpiece, and filled his pipe with tobacco from the slipper. He drew in deeply before speaking.

"We have ten cases of isolated deaths from communicable disease. All of them have this strange mark upon their person somewhere. They have all recently visited the university, for whatever reason. I suspect a university employee."

"I don't understand, Holmes," I replied, vexed. "It is not so easy to infect somebody with disease. Erysipelas, I suppose is possible, if the skin were pierced. But I cannot account for the others. We do not have the means."  
"From my recent studies in medicine, I disagree. And here is an interesting person indeed," said Holmes, and threw a piece of paper in my direction. It was a newspaper cutting, entitled 'Southton Group Makes Discovery.'

I read the article thoroughly. It was vague on the nature of the discovery, and alluded only to the fact that the breakthrough was in the field of disease and contagion. The leader of the group was Professor Roderick Southton. He had apparently collated a great deal of information on the transmission of various diseases. Sunddenly I realised what Holmes was suggesting.

"Surely not, Holmes!" I said.

"It would not be the first time, nor the last."  
"It's unethical!"

"Unethical certainly, but not inconceivable."

"What do we do?"  
"Consult Lestrade, for a search warrant."


	5. Chapter 5

Armed with Lestrade, several police constables, and a search warrant, we set out for the offices of Professor Southton. Holmes sat stony-faced in the cab. I looked at him somewhat forlornly. He met my gaze.

"I am certain of it, Watson."

I nodded. He did not believe it to be sincere.

"Either it is him or one of his group."

I did not understand fully the reasons for his allegation. From what I understood of it, it might have been mere coincidence. But Holmes did not always share his inferences with me, and that they were rarely wrong.

I did not wish to believe that here in London, somebody was carrying out experiments on people; some of the poorest, most vulnerable people. In addition, the leader of this research group was a medical man. How a man of the profession could do such a thing was beyond me. I was steeling myself for a speech about the greater good from the man.

When we arrived, a steward directed us to the offices of Professor Southton. We entered, and the Professor, who was sitting at a desk on a raised platform, seemed completely unsurprised that seven men had just burst into his office. He did not even look up for several minutes. He was a short man, not more than five and a half feet tall, with well-tailored clothes.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" he said, smiling.

Holmes looked to Lestrade.

"We have reason to search these premises," he said, pulling the warrant from his coat.

"Whatever for?" said Southton, still smiling.

Lestrade now turned to Holmes.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is in connection with a spate of recent deaths. You have been studying a means of preserving diseases outside the body?"  
"Indeed, yes!" said the Professor. It seemed that he was trying very hard to sound sincere.

"Have you tested the efficacy of these diseases?"  
"Why yes!"

"On humans?"

"Why, that would be unethical, Mr Holmes." As he said this, he got up from his seat and took the warrant from Professor Lestrade. "Do help yourselves, gentlemen." He sat down again and continued with his work.

Holmes was irked by the man, but stood while Lestrade and his men examined the offices. Holmes scurried around after them to see if they found anything of note, while I shuffled around

After three hours of searching, nothing was found. Southton seemed to be enjoying it, smiling, even singing quietly to himself as he carried out his work.

"Find anything, gentlemen?" he said, with forced politeness.

"We shall be in touch," said Lestrade, shooting a look at Holmes. We returned to Baker Street, without the constables.

"There was nothing there to find, Holmes!" said Lestrade.  
"That man is responsible! I know it!" said Holmes, pacing up and down the room.

"The law requires evidence, Mr Holmes."  
Holmes was positively angry, which I thought unusual. But I said nothing. Lestrade promised to pursue the matter if more evidence could be found, rather than Holmes' convictions. I certainly had doubts in my own mind but my faith in my friend and his abilities prevailed. Lestrade left us to pursue other matters, for though the minutiae of London crime did not appeal to Holmes, it made Lestrade rather busy.

Lestrade informed us that there were no more deaths like the ones we were investigating for the next few days. Holmes spent most of his time smoking and upsetting my reorganisation in our rooms. He neither ate nor slept. I realised that any protestations on my part would only irk him, and knew that this was a much better state of mind for him, on a case, than bored and seeking other means to occupy his mind.

* * *

I carried on much as I always did, visiting my club. Clarke was buried on a Thursday, and the only mourners were; myself, two other medical students, and the grave-diggers, who duly helped and stood next to the grave respectfully when only three mourners came to carry the poor man's coffin. Holmes did not attend.

When I arose on Saturday, Holmes was again snatching at papers and casting them about the room. He was repeating, over and over, "The wiry fellow. Who is the wiry fellow?" Mrs Hudson gave me a disgruntled look as she brought me my eggs.

"I don't know which I prefer! They both seem equally untidy!"

Our long-suffering landlady was now well used to Holmes' changeable moods, but I understood her annoyance at his behaviour. Again, there was no distracting him. I went about my business. Unfortunately there was little of it, and I began to regret selling my practice. I enquired about work _in locum tenens_.

* * *

When I returned home that evening, Holmes was gone, and did not return until 4 o'clock on Sunday. He was dressed as a labourer, and quite dirty. This was a common occurrence however, and did not warrant too much of my attention.

"I have found our wiry fellow!" he proclaimed triumphantly, throwing his dirty overcoat on to a chair. I winced, thinking of Mrs Hudson's reaction to it.

"Yes, " I said, wanting more explanation.

Holmes went on to say that he had asked one of the widows he had earlier questioned to allow him to pose as another relative; the man's brother, and wait to see if the same man that had been reported to have visited some of the others would come. She was hesitant at first, but two pounds certainly swayed her. The man asked innocuous questions, it seemed, and paid Holmes one pound for his trouble, believing the rouse. When the man left, Holmes followed him, to the offices of Professor Southton.

"When I enquired after him," said Holmes, "The only person in the offices was Southton himself." Holmes paced up and down with his finger pressed to his lips. "I went in after he left; there was no-one else."  
"You broke into the university!"

"They will be none the wiser, Watson," he smiled. He seemed to be excited when breaking and entering for noble purposes. "There is a concealed room in the offices. This affair is being conducted from there."

"What was in the room?" I asked, keenly.

"I was unable to find it, Watson." He kicked at the floor.

I stared at him. I had never known him to react in this way.

"What shall we do now?" I was not sure of the next step. Lestrade was not going to help us without more hard evidence. If Holmes had not found the room this time, returning to the building would not be useful.

"We need to accost the wiry man."

Lestrade agreed us the loan of two constables, and Holmes employed the Baker Street irregulars to watch for the man entering the offices. When the word was given, we lay in wait for the man to come out. We did not have to wait long. We waited for the man to cross to the next street, leaving the policemen in a doorway.

Holmes and I distracted the man by asking him the time. The man turned, and recognised Holmes from his meeting with the widow. Now in different attire, the man was instantly on his guard, and took to his feet. Holmes swiftly caught him, and I was not far behind. I caught hold of his arm, and he took hold of my leg, trying to pull me over. The policemen swiftly knocked him down and placed him in handcuffs. He had fought noisily, but now he became silent. He had sustained a small cut to his hand, but would not allow me to see it. It was very small, so I saw no need for treatment. The police took him to the Yard, while we followed in a hansom.

My trouser leg had been ripped in the struggle, only slightly. I examined it closely, and then turned to Holmes, who seemed positively delighted. It was not a long journey to the Yard.

Lestrade was there to meet us, and the man was taken to an interview room.

"Name?" said Lestrade. The man did not answer.

"Name!" said Lestrade. Still there was no response. The man remained completely emotionless. Holmes also tried to extract his name, but he gave none. He was carrying no identification, no money, and no personal items. He did not have a watch or any jewellery.

"He certainly fits the description," said Holmes. "His identity can be corroborated by any of the people he visited after the deaths.

For an hour he was questioned with no further remarks. Frustrated, Lestrade ordered him locked up. There was little else we could do. Holmes hoped that the loss of his aide would upset Southton. We returned to Baker Street.

I was feeling rather tired from the chase and the excitement, so I told Holmes that I would be retiring early. He was lighting another pipe.

"This, Watson, may be even more than a three pipe problem."

I understood. In this case it was perhaps more difficult to decide on an investigative course of action as to gain the necessary information.


	6. Chapter 6

I woke the next day feeling exhausted. Most of the night Holmes had been pacing up and down, and scraping on his violin.

When I was dressed, Holmes was sitting in his chair. His eyes were closed and he was twiddling his fingers.

"Ah, Watson," he said, snapping to attention. "Good. By now Southton is well aware that his colleague is missing, and we may presume he will think that we have him despite his infuriatingly smug attitude. I believe behind that façade is a man afraid. Once he is forced to go outside his normal, well practised routine, he shall make a mistake."

I was not sure exactly what Holmes meant.

"I have studied the plans for the building!"

Several rolls of plans were strewn around the floor along with the other debris.

"I am sure that the dimensions inside match those outside precisely. Therefore, whatever is hidden, is underneath the building. This will make a repeated search much easier, although it must be very well concealed."

Holmes continued with his deductions, while I spent much of the day rather dreamy, having had my sleep disturbed for much of the night.

* * *

I woke in the evening to find Holmes changing into a familiar set of clothes; that which he used for his rather sophisticated breaking and entering.

"You will come too, Watson?"

I nodded. I relished the adventure and could not resist despite my fatigue.

"You will bring your revolver, Watson?"

When we arrived at Southton's offices, two of his students were still in the building. We lay in wait across the street for them to leave. When they did, we crossed the street.

There was an alcove by the door, making it easy for us to conceal our presence. Holmes worked at the lock quickly, given that he had already picked it once. We were quickly inside. All was in darkness. Holmes lit the lantern he had concealed in his coat. On my previous visit, everything had been neatly arranged. Now there were papers scattered everywhere.

We made our way to the raised platform upon which Southton's desk was placed. Holmes held his lantern up, and we discovered a small flap, concealed in the top under the desk. Holmes opened it.

We stepped down into a large room. Holmes shone his lantern around.  
"Damn!" he whispered harshly. He banged his fist on the banister.

The room was filled with shelves and cupboards, bottles and jars. Every last one was empty. There were clear marks in the dust where objects had been recently removed.

Holmes sat down on the floor. "There is much more to this than I thought, Watson!" he said, rubbing his chin. "I have had this building under surveillance for three days. Nothing eventful has happened. And yet Southton has managed to remove the evidence from under my very nose!" He spoke with gritted teeth.

We spent some time searching the room for another entrance. However, unlike the room above, there was plainly none. Holmes was irate. "I have been a fool, Watson!" he said. He would punish himself severely for failing to spot an inference which any other man would not have even conceived of.

We went back out into the alcove and Holmes neatly locked the door again with his locksmith's tools. We resolved to return to Baker Street. Holmes called for a cab. I tried to get up into the cab after Holmes, but I could not. Suddenly I felt as though all the energy had been drained from my body, and I leaned against the cab. I could see blood dripping from my mouth and nose. Holmes was out of the cab at once, and caught hold of me as I slipped down on to the ground. Inexplicably, I began to laugh. I felt as if I were drunk.

"Watson!" called Holmes.I could not answer him. His image was fading before my eyes. He put his hand on my head.

"Good God!" he said. "Watson! Can you hear me?" His voice was desperate. He pulled at my trouser leg. "Watson! I have been doubly foolish! Can you hear me! Watson!" He shook me. I felt myself being lifted. "John! Wake up man!"

"Charing Cross!" shouted Holmes.

I remember nothing else.


	7. Chapter 7

When I woke, the brightness of the room stung my eyes. When I managed to regain focus, I could see that the room was actually very dimly lit. I could see Sherlock Holmes, sitting in a chair next to me.

"Watson!" He was relieved. "Thank God."  
"Holmes?" I tried to speak, but my voice cracked.  
"You mustn't talk; you must rest and regain your strength." He smiled at me, and could see the confusion in my eyes.

"You have been here, in Charing Cross Hospital, for four days. You have had the haemorrhagic fever, and we did fear for your life, Watson, but you will be well now." His eyes were glassy, and there was deep emotion in his voice, and I was touched.

I wanted to thank him, but I had not the strength to speak. I felt great fatigue.

Holmes stood, and patted my arm, and I looked toward it. My arms, indeed most of my body, were grey-purple; covered with bruises.

"I must go now, Watson. But fear not, I shall return soon." When he said this, his fists were clenched and his eyes wide. He was very angry indeed. He swiftly left, almost running.

I was a little crestfallen by Holmes' departure. However, soon after he left, I overheard a conversation between two women in the corridor.  
"God, has he gone?"  
""Yes,"

"Finally! I was thinking to start sweeping around him!"

"Must be his brother or something. Sitting in there for four days, I ask you!"

I was much cheered by this; even a little emotional. Although he was a man often of few words and of little emotion, he was truly a great friend. It was a fine thing to know that he felt the same for me as I did him. I fell into a deep sleep.

The hospital doctor explained to me that the fever had caused me to loose a great deal of blood, and that I should be very weak for some time, especially given a debilitating attack of enteric fever in my youth. The bruises would fade over time, and I was to have plenty to drink; water with a little salt and sugar, which was duly brought to me. I felt all the better for it, and was able to sit up. My tiredness was all-consuming, and I could barely hold a conversation without falling asleep.

"You are one of the luckiest men I have ever met, Dr Watson. Never have I seen a man seem so close to death, and make such an excellent recovery!"

I was a little confused, as I did not feel particularly well-recovered. However it was true that if a patient took badly with the haemorrhagic fever, there was little a doctor could do but treat them palliatively, and wait and see.

* * *

Through the night, in my moments of mental clarity, for I was still wont to drift into a half-sleep or stupor, I contemplated my situation. I have heard patients speak many times about the feelings one gets having 'cheated' death. It certainly felt odd. Neither Holmes nor the hospital doctor had explained to me exactly what had happened, and it felt as though a part of my life was missing. I had no idea how such a thing could effect my constitution.

Though still unable to even walk effectively, Holmes arrived for me the next day with a four wheeler. He had a spring in his step, and was overjoyed to see me. He was most insistent that I would be well looked after at home, and I was inclined to agree. I could lie in bed equally as well at home as in hospital, with all the comforts. Also, I felt that I had had quite enough of hospitals for one lifetime.

The driver and Holmes helped me into the house, and onto the couch, and Mrs Hudson prepared me some broth, for which I was most grateful.

"You do look a sight, Dr Watson!" she said, concerned. Mrs Hudson was very kind indeed. She got a look from Holmes and left us.

Holmes fetched water. "The doctor said that you are to have plenty to drink; water with a little salt and sugar."  
I smiled at his alacrity in giving me medical advice. "Thank you, Holmes." I looked at him, and he narrowed his eyes at me.

"It was the struggle with Baines."

"Baines?"

"The wiry man that was arrested. He pierced the skin of your leg with a tiny shard of metal, transmitting the fever to you."

I nodded as it rather made sense. But Holmes went on.

"It was that which enabled me to find the implement used. I had the doctor excise the mark on your leg." He held up a jar, which seemed to contain nothing; my eyes were not yet fully up to strength. But of course, it contained the shard.  
"And Baines? Will he be tried?"

"Baines is dead, Watson."

"Dead?"

"He also had a shard, but in his hand. He deliberately infected himself when he was accosted."

I was extremely tired, and it clearly showed.

"You should be resting, Watson," said Holmes.

"I am certainly tired, but full of interest, Holmes."

"You are the doctor, not I!" said Holmes with a smile. He fetched pillows and a blanket, and bade me lie down. I was quite impressed with his bedside manner. However I am not sure he would have done the same for anyone else.

"Yesterday Lestrade and I visited the home of Baines. While you slept, posters were put up asking for information on him. His rooms were Spartan, with only the bare essentials for living present. We found a ledger of names, with symptoms and results. It was in a crude cipher, it took me only minutes to solve it."  
"What for?"

"Test subjects by number. People on which they were carrying out experiments. The poor of London; husbands, brothers and fathers, reduced to numbers, Watson." There was now anger in his voice. "We are now looking for Southton. The fellow is in London, I am sure."

"Why?"  
"He has lived in London all his life. When a man wishes to hide, he often goes for the familiar; somewhere he knows is safe. Southton is deeply embroiled in this, I am sure of it. Even with the Yard on his tail I do not think he could leave his research for long. And the quantity of material that was moved from the university; they could not have moved it far without attracting attention. No, he is close, Watson."

"I am sorry, Holmes." I could no longer stay awake.

"Fear not my friend, you must get your rest."


	8. Chapter 8

I woke to the sound of voices.

"You must be quiet, for Dr Watson is asleep," said Holmes.

"Yes, Sir." It was the voice of a child.

"Here, this is the fellow." He handed Wiggins a newspaper cutting. "Scour London for him. When you find him, do not approach, but inform me immediately. If you find him, you shall be rewarded."

It was Wiggins, the unelected leader of the Baker Street Irregulars. He touched his cap and was off.

Mrs Hudson swept at the carpet when he had gone, for his boots were dirty. "Really, Mr Holmes!"

"That's quite enough, Mrs Hudson, thank you," said Holmes, and bid her leave the room.

"Holmes?" I said.

"Watson? How are you feeling today?" His voice was most sympathetic.

"Better, Holmes."

He put his hand to my head and felt my pulse. "Hmmm. Still, I do not think you should get up." This amused me greatly, and I let out a small laugh. Holmes looked immediately concerned.

"Don't worry, Holmes. I shall be fine."  
Holmes nodded and got up to light a pipe.

"I do wonder, though," I asked.

"Yes?"

"Why am I alive, Holmes?"  
"Indeed a question which has crossed my mind, Watson, more than once. I believe there are a number of factors making you more likely to survive. Firstly, this disease has its origins in the East, in which you have spent a great deal of time. You may have developed an immunity of sorts, making you less susceptible to it."  
"I am afraid I feel very much susceptible, Holmes."  
"Perhaps. Also, there are cases in which contraction of one disease may provide some immunity from another, such as Jenner's smallpox and cowpox."  
"I have had only enteric fever."

"Indeed I know of no connection, but it may indeed be possible. Finally, your shard was removed. I asked the doctor to check for and remove it, although he thought it to be inconsequential. I allowed him to retain this theory."

I did not know why, but I did not enquire further.

Holmes knitted his fingers, and drew a deep breath. He gritted his teeth. "I shall not rest, Watson, until I have them." He stared for some minutes. He was determined.

* * *

It was four-thirty in the morning when I woke again. I could here Holmes whispering. I pulled myself into a sitting position on the couch.

"Hello, Dr Watson! I hope you are on the mend, Sir." It was Wiggins.

I nodded to him.

"Watson, you need your sleep!" said Holmes, disgruntled at having woken me.

"News, Holmes?" I asked.

"News indeed, Watson."  
"You have found Southton?"

"No, but Wiggins has been useful enough to provide me with some other information."  
"Yes,"

"The men I employed to watch Southton's offices are both dead, found in the back room of a tavern near the university."

He put on his hat and coat, and looked back towards me.

"Go," I said. "I shall be fine."  
He nodded and left.

I waited with interest for his return. I was beginning to feel much less tired, and was able to walk about and get dressed. Mrs Hudson prepared some breakfast and was serving it for us.

"Did you find shards in them?" I asked.

"No, these two were murdered in a much more traditional manner. They were each stabbed in the back."

"Gracious! What a thing to talk about at the breakfast table!" said Mrs Hudson, and left us.

Holmes smiled. "Each man had only a single wound and their hands lacked the slash marks or bruising which should have been present had there been a struggle."  
"So they were killed by a coward!"

"I would say not, Watson. And certainly not by a single coward in any case."  
"But they were stabbed in the back!"  
"Indeed. However, the wounds were expert. The men lay in pools of their own blood, and none was spread about the room. This means they died quickly, without the opportunity to try and summon help. Contrary to popular belief, it can be difficult to kill someone with a single stab wound if you are not absolutely sure of where to strike. Thus the thing was done by persons who were no stranger to such violence."

"How do you know there were two?"

"There can only have been two people present. Firstly, each man slain had a wound from a different type of knife. One was about six inches long with a slight inward curve, and one inch across, with a sharp edge only on one side. The other was quite different; four inches long, one-and-a-half inches wide, double-edged and quite straight."

"Could not it have been one man with two knives?"  
"That does not make sense, Watson. Why would you stab a man, put that knife away, and then draw another to stab a second man, who would have been either trying to make good his escape, or coming for you with a different weapon? No. In any case, the angle of the wounds was different. One, the one with the double-edged knife, was committed by a tall man, over six feet, quite as tall as myself. The other was a much shorter man, five feet and six inches. The short man was left-handed."

"Spectacular, Holmes."

Holmes nodded to me, for he knew this to be the case. "Both men had yesterday been to the country, North of London."

He could see from my gaze that I wanted him to explain his reasoning.

"There were specks of mud in the room. There was no mud on the boots of the dead men. It was still quite wet, so could have only been picked up in yesterday's rain. The type of mud I found is native to the North of London. I would say between London and Stanmore. I found also the petals of a ragwort plant, hardly seen in the City. The men had a number of pound notes in their jackets, meaning they were not robbed. They have been recently been paid a large sum of money."  
"What for, Holmes?"

"I have deduced that they were bribed to remain quiet when Southton removed the items from his offices. Now, because Southton cannot risk their ever breaking their silence, he has arranged for them to be disposed of."

"Good God," I said. I never ceased to be disturbed by the violent and often deadly cases we were embroiled with.

"Ragwort, _senecio jacobaea_, is the scourge of cattle and horse farmers as it is a most potent poison. We should be very unlikely to find it on farmed land."

"Bravo, Holmes!"

"Now I need to find a piece of land in the area I mentioned, where no animals are grazed nearby."

He unrolled one of his maps and began to pore over it, sticking pins in at precise locations. He continued in this task for some hours, able to recall from memory the boundary of the soil type he was interested in. Holmes knowledge of such things was positively encyclopaedic.

When he had finished, he looked at me gravely. "Watson, are you able to travel? I realise that you are convalescent but I have need of your assistance."  
I still felt rather fragile, and I was still somewhat bruised, but I felt that this case was of extreme importance, and that Holmes would not ask me to accompany him if he did not feel it absolutely necessary.

"I will do everything I can to assist you, Watson," he said, with a warm smile.

"Of course, I will come with you, Holmes."

Holmes reached for his Bradshaw. "There is a train at eleven o'clock," said Holmes. "We shall make it if we hurry."

* * *

Holmes assisted me with getting into the cab. We arrived in time for the train, and Holmes was most protective of me; making sure other passengers did not bump into me and watching me very carefully. He covered me with a blanket once we had found our compartment, and we were on our way to Stanmore. 


	9. Chapter 9

The journey to Stanmore took some time as there was some problem with the signals. I could not help but sleep for half an hour, despite the excitement. Holmes had brought a flask of brandy mixed with sugar, salt and water, which was most welcome. It was not a great distance from the station at Stanmore to the inn that Holmes and I were to stay in, but my legs would not have carried me that far. Holmes flagged down a boy with a pony and trap to take us there. He kept me most well wrapped in the blankets.

The room was comfortable, and I lay on the bed, exhausted from my journey. Holmes left our bags in the room, donned a battered old hat, and took his leave, saying he would only be a few minutes. I looked out of the window, and he took off with the boy once more. I assume he completed a circuit of the village, for not five minutes later he was back in the same place. He rejoined me.  
"I think I may have it, Watson!" said Holmes, excitedly. "There are but three establishments that meet our criteria. I shall investigate under cover of darkness. And we must keep a low profile. I can't imagine that Southton would frequent the village, but his thuggish cronies may."

"Indeed," I said. "What are you looking for?"  
"That, Watson, I do not know."

Holmes sat cross legged on the bed with his eyes closed. He was again deep in thought, reviewing the facts of the case and trying to unravel the mystery. Occasionally I would fall asleep, and when I woke, Holmes would still be sitting there. Twice he descended into the inn and returned with a bowl of hot soup. As I lay in bed, I began to wonder what use I could possibly be.

* * *

At eleven o'clock Holmes donned a dark suit of clothes and bade me farewell. The time passed rapidly while I slumbered, until Holmes' return at three o' clock. 

I was astonished to find him carrying two large chickens, one in each hand. Both were dead.  
"What the devil?" I asked, blinking. I was well used to him turning up at all hours, in all conditions, with all manner of artefacts, but never chickens.

"Laying hens!" said Holmes, and triumphantly placed them on the floor.

"So I see," I said, looking at him confusedly.

"I have found our place!" He was rather out of breath; he must have run some distance. "There is a small farm not one mile to the north on the main road from the village, where ragwort is abundant. And there are no animals, save for two hundred chickens."  
"A chicken farm, Holmes?"

"Indeed. I searched the place as well as I could without giving myself away. I found no trace of people. There were too many footprints in the yard to make any sense of."

"I wish you'd be more careful. What if you were seen? Or caught?"

He took a deep breath, and flapped his old cap. "Tell me, Watson, what did these birds die of?"

I was a little surprised, as I had not thought this to be the reason Holmes had brought me the chickens. I sat up and held out my hands. He gave one of them to me. It was still warm.  
I laughed a little. "I am not accustomed to carrying out post-mortems on fowl, Holmes!"

"Ah! That's my Watson!" said Holmes, with glee.

As I asked, I examined the bird. It seemed to be in very good condition.

"Holmes, would you pluck the chicken?" I asked.

"Certainly," he said. He set to work until he had plucked about half the chicken. Even before he had finished, we could see a most peculiar pattern.

The skin was mottled, and covered with bruises. Pressing on the skin caused blood to ooze from it. There were no signs of injury. It was stiffened, but not from _rigor mortis._

"Your diagnosis, doctor?" asked Holmes, after waiting patiently while I prodded the chicken.

"I would say it died from internal bleeding."  
"Tell me, Watson, is it possible for this creature to have died from the same disease that has stricken you?"

"It is possible, Holmes. There are many theories about diseases spreading from humans to birds and_ vice-versa_. It is difficult, though. One would have to have a great deal of close contact with birds to catch a disease from them." I said this more for my own reassurance than for Holmes. When enmeshed in a case, his own personal safety was not highest on his list of priorities.

Holmes took the hen from me and proceeded to finish plucking it. On the top of one of its legs was etched a number.

"Experiment number!" said Holmes. "We must send for Lestrade! I must away to the station, Watson."

He departed but return within fifteen minutes. He then set about pouring candle wax into a dish and leaving it to warm by the fire.

"What on earth are you doing, Holmes?" I asked.

He simply smiled at me with a look that told me I was much better off not knowing. The detective rolled up his sleeves, and, producing a paintbrush from his coat, proceeded to coat his upper arms with several layers of wax. I was somewhat puzzled. When the wax dried, Holmes watched each arm in turn as he moved it and made sure that the wax would not crack. He then dusted them with a powder in a small jar, also from his coat. Indeed, now it was difficult to tell there was any wax there.  
"I must keep a watch on the place," said Holmes, rolling his sleeves down again. "I have asked Lestrade to come here. When he does, direct him to the farm. You must come with him." He put on a threadbare jacket and his battered hat. Then he added his beard, and were I to meet him on the street, I am sure I would not have recognised him.  
"Of course. You will be careful, Holmes."

"Thank you, Watson," he said with a warm smile. "Do not come after me before Lestrade arrives. Not a minute before, Watson. And bring your bag." And Holmes was gone.

* * *

I waited most expectantly for Lestrade. As the time grew later and the day grew lighter, I began to fear for his safety. If he was right, and he usually was, then there was great danger to be met at the hands of the rogue professor. Others who had either helped or hindered him were now in their graves. Although I was extremely fatigued, I could not sleep, and the ticking of the clock was beginning to torment me. I worried more and more. I used Holmes' Bradshaw to try and calculate the time that the Inspector would arrive. I did not know whether Holmes had sent the message to the Yard or to Lestrade's home. I was no match for Holmes' deductive powers. But using my own reasoning, I supposed that he would arrive by eleven o'clock. 


	10. Chapter 10

Lestrade arrived at midday, and there was no sign of Holmes. He had brought some men with him, and they waited in the inn while he came up to me.

"Hello, Dr Watson. Good God! Whatever has happened to you?"

He looked at my bruised face. "Mr Holmes told me you had been taken ill, but you look like you have been in a fight!"

I smiled but said nothing.

"Mr Holmes sent for me, saying it would be worth my coming."

"I am to take you to him."

"Can you walk?"

He said that a little too patronisingly. "I can walk, Lestrade, just not very far."

"Wouldn't it be better for you to stay here?"  
"Holmes was most insistent that I accompany you."

"I have a horse and cart outside."

I nodded and went to stand. A dizzy feeling came over me, as I had stood up too quickly. I must have looked as though I might fall, for Lestrade caught hold of my arm.

"Are you quite alright, Dr Watson?" he asked, with genuine concern.

"I am fine. Come, I am sure Holmes needs us by now." I steadied myself, and using the wall as support made my way down to the trap. One of the officers helped me in.

* * *

I directed them to the farm. The road towards it twisted and turned. The farm seemed to spring from nowhere as we rounded a tight corner. The house and the barn looked sleepy; there was no sign of activity, and indeed nothing to pick this place out from any of the other surroundings. It looked as though nobody had visited for many months, or even years. I stayed in the trap while Lestrade commandingly deployed his men to search the area. They were at work for almost an hour.

There was a small house, and two barns. One was made of wood, and it was in such poor condition that it was possible to see right through it. It looked as if it might fall down at any moment. The other was of brick, and also quite shabby, but seemed to have been recently repaired. There were a few small windows, which were too dirty to see through.

"There's nothing here, Doctor," said Lestrade, leaning on the edge of the trap.

"This is definitely the place," I said, but I could see that Lestrade was right. There were no animals nor people, nor sounds of the same anywhere around. All that could be heard was the wind in the trees and the footfalls and calls of the policemen.

"Then where is Mr Holmes?" asked Lestrade, accusingly.

"He is here, Lestrade."

I looked around at the scene from my vantage point. I remembered what Holmes had said. He would not have brought me here in my frail condition without good reason, and he was very keen that I arrive here, with Lestrade and my bag. I knew that Holmes needed me but did not know how to reach him. It was a most helpless feeling.

I looked at the tracks made by our horse. There was another set of hoof prints, fresh in the mud.

"Lestrade, someone has been here, and not long before us."

"What?"  
"There is another set of tracks."  
"That I can see, Dr Watson," said Lestrade most cynically.

"They were made by a small pony, today. The pony pulled a small trap, heavily laden."

"How do you know it was today?"  
I was concentrating very hard. "The pony has small feet, hence the footprints. Ergo, it is a small pony. The trap was weighed down as we can tell from the tracks it was not large, but the indentations in the mud caused by the wheels are deeper than those from our trap. I know it was today because it has been rainy of late; all the other marks in the mud, apart from these and our own are filled with water still."

Lestrade gave an acknowledging look. "Does this help us to find Mr Holmes?"

I looked around; clearly it did not. Yet I thought that if I could apply Holmes' methods and elicit this much information from the scene, I might yet be able to use it further.

I got down from the trap carefully and sat on a low wall next to it. The tracks from the pony arrived, turned about, and went off towards the road again. There were no footprints or marks of any kind in the immediate vicinity. It seemed as though somebody had taken a wrong turn. But I could not imagine this to be the case. There were many hoof prints in one area, suggesting that the pony had stood idle for some time and shifted the weight among his feet. I was confused. However there was many a time that the police had been deployed to discover something, found nothing, and after only moments at the same task Sherlock Holmes had been successful. The police must have missed something. I looked hard at the ground.

It was then that I noticed a small brown feather on the ground. Holmes had brought me chickens to examine in the early hours of the morning. I had expected to see some here; for that was the indication of the evidence. But there were none. I got up, gingerly, and picked up the feather. I wondered to myself where they might have gone.

It was then that I remembered the manner in which we discovered the secret room in Southton's London offices. I stepped into the brick barn. There was nothing to note. I thought that there was something strange about the wall. I walked inside and out two more times. I began to lean on the wall, for I was quite exhausted. It was then I realised that there were no windows on the inside.

I kept this information to myself while I pondered the situation. I knew Holmes was here, and this building was very suspicious. I decided to conduct an experiment. The wall was not thick enough to be concealing another room into which the outside windows led. But there must have been a reason to install these windows; I could not see how it would add to the function or disguise of the building; is a barn with windows any more noticeable than one without? Perhaps someone was looking out of the windows. Perhaps we were being watched.


	11. Chapter 11

In my weakened condition it took me a little longer than usual to cogitate. I called Lestrade over; he was idly looking around.  
"There's nothing here; I think we should go." I spoke quite loudly. "I think we should go back to London. We'll find the answer there."

"Well you've changed your tune!" said Lestrade. "One wild idea after another. A whole bloody day I've wasted! You're almost as bad as-"  
"Indeed," I said. "But we're wasting even more time here."

Lestrade smiled at me almost pityingly. He gathered his men and we left. It took all of my effort not to look back until we had passed the second bend in the road, so that we could no longer see the farm. I instead admired the ragwort plants growing on the edges of the track much, I am sure, to the consternation of the other farmers.

We neared the end of the track and I asked Lestrade to stop.

"Why?" he asked.

"We need to go back."  
"But there's nobody there! You said there was nobody there. You should get some rest, Doctor."

"I haven't lost my wits, Lestrade, at least not yet! My wishing to depart was a ruse. I am sure Holmes, and indeed Southton and his henchmen, are here. I believe they knew of our approach."  
Lestrade glared at me. I could see that he was annoyed, but he wanted to believe me. "What if we're being watched now?"

"Everything they have done so far suggests that Southton likes to play his cards very close to his chest. He can't have too many men on board, at least not of the criminal sort he seems to have recruited. I don't think he'd risk that, especially since he has an excellent hiding place."

Lestrade was quiet for a moment as he contemplated the situation. The police officers all looked to him, waiting for instruction. "What do you suggest, doctor?"  
"We go back. On foot. Quietly!"  
"And then?"  
It was then that I realised I had no idea what to do next. "If they are visible, we capture them."  
"Brilliant, doctor," said Lestrade sardonically. "And if not?"  
"I am sure they will reveal themselves. They need to move things around. Now that Holmes has been caught, they must realise that others are not far behind."  
Lestrade nodded; he agreed.

We secured our horse and cart and went back toward the farm on foot. This time, instead of going up the road, we followed the line of a hedgerow running almost parallel to it. I struggled with the walk, and one of the constables, Farrar, threw one of my arms across his shoulders and helped me along.

As we drew close to the barn, Lestrade threw out his arm to stop the advance. He drew a revolver. He beckoned to the rest of us and we drew close to him. We were looking through the large door on our side of the barn, right through to the other side. We watched in dumbstruck awe as the hay-covered floor peeled itself back to reveal a staircase. Out of if stepped two men. One was very tall; the other about five feet six inches. I tugged at Lestrade's sleeve.  
"Those two are the murderer's of the watchmen, Lestrade!"

Lestrade and I watched as the men exited the barn and turned right, to walk down the road. Lestrade looked at two of his men, and wordlessly communication his wish for them to go back down the line of the hedge and apprehend the pair. He gave them another look, and both nodded before starting back.

"They're armed, Lestrade."  
"Yes, I just told them." I was a little taken aback; perhaps Lestrade was more cerebral than I took him for.

We waited for about ten minutes. Then Lestrade despatched a third man, Jones, to check on the other two. He returned swiftly. All the while, Lestrade was watching the barn like a hawk.

"Both are apprehended, Sir," said the policemen on his return. "Each was carrying a knife and a few other villainous weapons."  
"Nobody else has come out, Jones."  
"Sir?"  
"That means we must go in."

"Yes, Sir."

"The doctor should stay here."  
"No, I must come with you!" I protested.

"Can you do it, doctor? I can't have Farrar carrying you while we make arrests!"

"Yes, Inspector, I can." It was no great distance.

We crept, Lestrade, Farrar, Jones and I, to the entrance. There seemed to be natural light coming up from the underground room, which, for this reason, seemed most unnatural. It was quite silent, and I was very apprehensive. The noise and destruction of the battlefield held few fears for me; one knew one might be shot, or shelled, and one learnt to live with it. In a situation like this, there was no knowing what might happen, and this truly was unnerving.

The others went a little ahead of me down the staircase, as I needed the assistance of the wall to help me down. By the time they reached the bottom, I was only two-thirds of the way down. And as I tried to catch up, it seemed that all hell broken loose.

A man rushed at Farrar and Jones. Lestrade was behind them, but as the two were engaged in fighting the man, another hurled himself at Lestrade, knocking him to the ground. The man tackling the two constables seemed completely frenzied; thrashing about so much that even the two large, strong officers had trouble even keeping hold of him.

"Get the handcuffs on him!"

"I can't keep hold of his hands!"

"Keep still lad, you're only delaying the inevitable!"

The other man punched Lestrade repeatedly even as he lay on the ground. He did not seem very proficient however, as Lestrade merely grimaced and shoved him off. He was soon down again; such was the ferocity of the two men. I was at the bottom of the stairs when I saw a flash of metal in the hand of Lestrade's opponent. He held it as his back, and rushed toward Lestrade. He threw his hands up, but could not get away in time. I could not get to him either. As a reflex independent of my thoughts, I threw my hat at the man. It hit him in the face, allowing Lestrade to stand up and right-hook the fellow in the jaw. He fell to the ground. Lestrade was obviously shaken by his brush with death, and took a moment to compose himself, before assisting Jones and Farrar.

"Good God, can you men not even handcuff a prisoner?"  
"He's a feral Sir!"

"Feral indeed. Jones, give me a hand. Farrar, slap them on the other one, to keep him there should he decide to wake up."

The irons were on the man, and he sank to the ground, weeping.

"What have you done?" he said.

"Excuse me?" said Lestrade.

"You've ruined everything!" he sobbed.

"Where's Sherlock Holmes?" I shouted, and went towards him.

He was not much more than a boy, perhaps nineteen or twenty. But he would not answer me, and my anger was such that I felt as if I could tear him limb from limb.

"Where is he?" The boy seemed pained at my shouting at him, and held his hands to his ears, such as he could with the handcuffs on.

It was only now that I was able to examine the room in any detail, for the excitement had meant I had taken little notice of my surroundings. The room was larger than the barn upstairs, and yet from ground level it was almost impossible to tell that there was anything here at all. The walls were brick line; the place must have been built at some considerable expense. A metal assembly of gear wheels with a handle sat next to the stairs, for winding the floor above back and forth. Along the wall was a series of structures, which allowed light in from the ground above. They were cylindrical, containing lots of mirrors. It was as if the sunlight were being piped into the room.

I was frustrated; Holmes was not here, and neither was Southton. There was straw on the floor, and mud. There were wooden boxes stacked on shelves against two of the walls- all containing chickens. There were no clucks to be heard; the chickens were all dead. I looked to the sobbing boy once more. He kept looking toward one of the shelves. When he noticed that I had observed him doing this, he became anxious.

"Lestrade?"

"Yes?"  
"Could you have your men move that shelf aside?"  
Lestrade looked at Jones and Farrar, and they obliged, with the greatest of effort to move it to one side. I breathed heavily; I was utterly exhausted, and feeling very weak, but I was being held together by the excitement. When the shelves had been moved, a door was revealed. The boy wailed.

"Quiet! Do you hear?" Lestrade growled.

Instantly, the boy was silent.

Lestrade drew his revolver once more. The men drew their truncheons. We four went towards the door.


	12. Chapter 12

The two policemen looked at each other, and it seems that Jones was elected to open it. Lestrade stood ready with his revolver as he threw it open.

The scene before us was incredible. On the other side of the large room, which was lit with the same piped sunlight as before, sat two men, on a bench. They stared at us, and made no effort to stand. We were surprised, as we had been expecting the same frenzied struggle as before. One man put his head in his hands. They were both wearing fine clothes, which were battered and dirty. The man with his head in his hands had very unkempt hair and dirty hands. We approached them. There were bales of straw, piles of papers, boxes and blankets everywhere.

"Southton!" I shouted when I recognised the man. Lestrade threw out his arm to stop me from running at him. Southton looked up and again dropped his head into his hands.

I clenched my fists. "Where's Holmes?" I growled.

Southton did not respond.

"And you are?" Lestrade addressed Southton's companion.

He also did not answer. This man was pale; his skin was almost grey. He stared straight ahead of him. I looked to Lestrade, and he nodded. Southton was dragged from the bench, for he refused to walk, and I went to the other man. I felt no love for him but my training as a doctor forced me to see if I could help him. He did not react as I took his pulse and touched his forehead. He had no fever and a normal pulse.  
"Shock," I said. "Where's Holmes?" Again he did not answer. I pinched his earlobe. "We'll get nothing out of this one," I said to Lestrade. "Not for some time."

Southton was sitting on the floor by the door, with a police constable's hand on each shoulder. Neither of these men having been any use, Lestrade searched the room. This was no easy task, given the quantity of detritus present. Southton was mumbling and Lestrade bade him be silent. We listened intently, and heard a sound from across the room. We followed in. Behind a row of enormous boxes on a bed of straw, bound and gagged lay Sherlock Holmes.

I rushed to him and attempted to remove the gag. Holmes was quite conscious, but he had a large bruise over his left eye and most of his cheek. His eyes were sunken and his face was pale. He had a ragged blanket around his shoulders. Lestrade assisted and removed the ropes from his arms. I finally removed the gag and made to get hold of Holmes' arm to pull him up. He shrank away from me.

"Don't touch me, Watson!" he cried. His voice was rasping. "I must have some water!"

I was carrying none, and looked at Lestrade, who found a tap and a glass, and filled it for Holmes.

"Are you all right, Holmes?"

"I'll be fine, Watson. The smaller of the henchmen had a mean right hook!"

"I see." I looked into his eyes. "You are suffering from dehydration, Holmes."

"Yes. I was forced to drink salt water, no doubt to make my death seem less suspicious."  
"Death?"  
"Indeed, they meant to kill me. They are very protective of this work, and could not allow me to go away telling people the truth."  
"What is the truth, Mr Holmes?" asked Lestrade. He was clapping handcuffs on to the shocked man.

Holmes drank deeply from his glass. Instead of raising his arm to his mouth, he lowered his head to the glass. "Southton has been doing this work for many years. About five years ago he made a huge breakthrough in the field of disease transmission. This attracted attention, and indeed, financial gain. To further his research, he needed to study disease in humans, and the best way, and this I cannot argue with, is to run experiments on humans."  
"But, Holmes!"

"I agree it is immoral and unethical, but it is the best from a purely scientific point of view. And that, it seems, is the only point of view that Southton has. So he began experimenting on the poor. He wanted to see how a disease could be introduced to a population, and how it would spread. He devised a means to deliver diseases; piercing the skin with a small metal shard. It is so small that one would not find it unless he knew specifically what he was looking for. However, the shard also leaves a characteristic bruise pattern. There was no way to conceal it. They thought that nobody would be interested in the death of a poor person who died from a common disease. And it seems that they were right. I believe many hundreds of people have died as part of this ghoulish experiment. We managed to turn up only a few."

"Good God!" I said. "And all this under the misnomer of philanthropy."  
"Oh they are philanthropists, Watson. They are simply not of the traditional sort."  
"What do you mean, Mr Holmes?" asked Lestrade.

Holmes drank the rest of the water in his glass in the same manner as before. "Would you be so kind as to refill my glass?"

Lestrade obliged.

"Southton has been working on his theories for many years. Now, the man you have in irons over there, and Baines, his secretary, introduced him to the idea that the deprivation suffered by the poor of London could be best remedied by reducing their numbers."  
Lestrade and I were awestruck. Holmes nodded solemnly.

"It was an ideal partnership. Southton had funding, and guinea pigs, for his research. Your man and his secretary, Baines, could study the economic and social effects. Their ultimate plan was to be able to create localised epidemics of disease, in order to reduce the population to a level where there was less suffering among those who were left. Ingenious, really."

"Holmes!"

"From a scientific perspective, of course, Watson. I do not condone it."

"Glad to hear it, Holmes." I sat down on the edge of one of the boxes.

"As we began to suspect him, Southton drew his allies closer to him. Two of his students in particular were so taken in by his charm and promises fro the greater good, I am sure they would have thrown themselves in front of a bullet for him. Between them and the extra staff he had available from Baines and his master, they managed to pay off the men I had watching his offices, and move out the evidence, all the way here. This was their first laboratory, where they carried out their initial experiments on hens. When they wished to test a new disease, they did it here. Southton began to grow desperate as the net closed around him. Baines was captured. He hired two killers from the East End. They murdered my watchmen."  
Lestrade nodded. Holmes took another drink.

"However, Baines had been carrying a set of the shards, as were the others, in case of capture. Baines infected himself and Dr Watson. However, this batch was hastily and poorly prepared, and I am thankful for their haste, for had they done a better job, Dr Watson would almost certainly have died."

I, too, was thankful for their negligence.

"I traced the East End killers to this location using evidence gathered at the scene. By now, they were in Southton's employ as bodyguards. But due to the location of this laboratory and the efforts which were made to conceal it, Southton felt much safer. And there was his mistake."  
"Mistake?" said Lestrade.

"Yes, Lestrade. Rather a large one. When I came here the first time I noticed the windows. They do not look into the building. If you study them carefully, you will see a clever arrangement of mirrors inside. This allows someone in the underground room to look out of the ground floor windows. It also allows sunlight to come in."

Lestrade walked over to one and look up at the top of it. "Yes, I see!" he said. "Remarkable."

"With the addition of another mirror, a man on the outside might be able to see in, as I did. I could see this room, but I saw no one in it. I could not find the means of opening the staircase. Efforts had been made to pack, so I knew they would return. However, I could not tell when, so I returned to the Doctor, and sent a message to the Yard. Thus I could watch the farm, and Watson would lead you to them."

"But you were captured."  
"Yes. It seems that the stairs may only be opened from the inside, so someone had to be there all the time. In this case it was the students."  
I was confused. I thought that if Sherlock Holmes wished to evade capture, he could have done.

Holmes saw the look. "I allowed myself to be captured. I was sure that they would impart more information in the presence of a man they thought was doomed to die."  
"Doomed to die?" asked Lestrade.

"Indeed," said Holmes. He removed the blanket from his shoulders. His shirt sleeve was covered with blood. "I have been victim to the shards myself."


	13. Chapter 13

The heavy fatigue was forced from my body, and I got to my feet.

"Good God, Holmes!"

I went to him, and this time he held his arm out for me. The wounds were still bleeding, more than a little. "How do you feel?"

"Not without discomfort, Watson, but I am sure I shall survive." His constitution seemed to be intact. He gave me a most trusting look, and nodded.

"You have your bag, Watson?"

"Yes. Lestrade?"

Lestrade signalled to one of the officers, who promptly fetched it. I looked around the room.

"Shouldn't we get him to the hospital?" asked Lestrade as I continued to look at Holmes arm.

"No," I said. "I cannot see too much of the wounds at the moment; the shards have been driven straight through the shirtsleeve, but there are several shards embedded in the arm."  
"Twenty," said Holmes.

"Twenty?" I was quite shocked. Just one of these had been enough to almost kill me. "How is-"  
"You don't remember the wax?" asked Holmes, smiling wryly.

"Of course!"

"Wax?" asked Lestrade, confused.

"Ingenious!" I said. "Holmes painted his arms with wax before coming. The wax must have coated the shards as they were driven in."

"So he'll be all right?"  
"I am still here, Lestrade," said Holmes. "And I certainly hope so."

I took a deep breath. I was concerned that he would be lucky indeed if not a single shard managed to infect him. I was certainly going to have to remove the shards here, and I was contemplating how and where to perform the operation. I was feeling most unwell, but another doctor would not be able to get to our location in time. As I contemplated the situation, several questions arose in my mind.

"How did you know he would place them in your arm?" I asked.

"He is a doctor, Watson. Even his fall into the pit of criminality has not shaken his clinical habits. With many of the other victims, the placing of the shards was opportunistic. With myself, they had a sitting target. They could afford to take their time and be a little more particular."

I was very uneasy of his talking about the macabre situation so matter-of-factly.

"That table over there. Clear it. And find something to cover it with."

Lestrade and his men hurried about the room to follow my instructions.

"It's going to be all right, Holmes," I said.

He nodded to me most warmly, and took my arm with his uninjured one. "Thank you, Watson. I am sorry."

It was for this reason that he had insisted I accompany him. He trusted implicitly both my integrity and my skill.

Lestrade and his men duly prepared as I had requested. As they did, I took the opportunity to drink quite a quantity of water. I was not at my full strength and any slipping on my part might be disastrous for Holmes.  
"Holmes, can you walk?" I asked. He did have some moderate blood loss, and was still very dehydrated, but I felt it safer for him to move himself rather than be manhandled.

"Yes, of course."

He got up slowly, and walked with great care so as not to move his arm. He began to shake.

"Are you all right, Holmes?"

"Yes." His voice was breathy and his complexion paled further. I went to his side and guided him to the table, where I beckoned to him to lie on his side. I carefully washed my hands. Lestrade sidled away and went to stand guard over the prisoners with his colleagues.

"It's important that you don't move, Holmes."

"I know."

There was a very distinct nervousness in his voice, to which I was unaccustomed. Over the years I had repaired various of the many injuries and illnesses he had sustained in the line of his work or at his syringe, but never anything quite so serious.

In my surgery I might have had the option of anaesthetising him, but there was no such luxury here. The shards were larger than the ones used on myself and the other victims, but not massively so. I did not think that their removal would cause such a great deal of pain, but might cause Holmes to flinch. This could disturb the wax coating.

I sat on a stool, and had to lean on the table to steady myself. I washed his arm with carbolic acid. Holmes gritted his teeth, but remained perfectly still. Slowly and carefully I extracted the twenty shards. I inspected them but it was impossible to say whether Holmes' idea about the wax had worked. I cleaned the wounds thoroughly, and bandaged his arm.

"There we go, all done," I said. Holmes sat up, examined the bandage around his arm and shot me an amused look for my bedside comments. I was relieved. The initial panic was now over. We would simply have to wait and see whether any infection would take hold. However, judging by the rapid onset seen in some of the other victims, and the sheer number of shards administered to Holmes, I was hopeful that since there had been none thus far, there would be none. He was looking much fitter now.

Lestrade reappeared. "I've sent a man to the village to wire the Yard. We can hold the fort here until they arrive. When he comes back, you can take our cart back to the village. We can meet at Baker Street later this evening."

As far as Holmes was concerned, the case was solved, and so he raised no objection.

"Thank you, Lestrade. Watson?" The cart drew up outside.

I packed up my bag and rolled down my shirtsleeves. Holmes patted me triumphantly on the back. But as I got up, my nose began to bleed, and I felt very faint.  
"Holmes," I began, and felt a familiar wave of nausea.

"My dear Watson!" said Holmes. He threw my arm across his shoulders and we sat on the edge of the table. Holmes handed me his handkerchief.

"Ready, Watson?"

I nodded. With the excitement over, and Holmes safe and well, my weakness asserted itself with a new vengeance.

"You know, Watson, you have been rather overdoing things so early in your recovery."

Even in my current state his humour was not lost on me. I was pleased indeed that Holmes nerves were repaired.

Holmes hauled me to my feet, and helped me into the cart. He threw a blanket over me. The policeman obliged and drove us back to the station. We returned to Baker Street, and were attended with brandy and hot broth by Mrs Hudson while we waited for Lestrade.


	14. Chapter 14

Lestrade arrived later than expected, with a companion. I had spent much of the day sleeping, and still lay on my couch, while Holmes had been smoking copious quantities of tobacco.

"You are late, Lestrade!" said Holmes, excitedly.

"Yes, Mr Holmes. It took us a while to identify the mute. This is-"  
"Mr Stewart John, MP. Delighted." Holmes shook his hand.  
Mr John looked puzzledly at Lestrade, as if expecting an explanation. But Lestrade also looked puzzled. This amused Holmes greatly.

"Have we met before, Sir?" asked John.

"I don't believe so. Cigarette?" asked Holmes.

John accepted, as did Lestrade.

"How did you-" began Lestrade.

"Mr John is more than an MP. His parliamentary duties include the monitoring of the conduct of the ministers, to ensure that the House is not brought into disrepute, and scandals are avoided. I should have thought there could be few greater scandals than this."

Mr John nodded, impressed. "This is not a well known fact, Sir."  
"It is my concern to know what others do not."

"Indeed you are quite correct of the potential for scandal. News of this would have the poor of London in terror."

"The secret is quite safe with Dr Watson and I."

"The inspector has told me that I can have absolute trust in your integrity," said John.

Holmes smiled warmly at Lestrade.

From my sickbed, my frustration grew as the identity of the man we apprehended had not yet been revealed.  
"So who was he?" I asked. I could wait no longer.

"Dr Timothy Warbrick-Smith MP," said John.

"Indeed!" said Holmes. Evidently he had been previously unaware of his identity, but the revelation made sense to him.

I gave him a questioning look.

"Wabrick-Smith is also a physician, and has some junior responsibilities for public health. He is quite wealthy, and is a renowned philanthropist, although the public-spirited generosity for which he is noted is of a much more conventional variety," said John. "He has never given us cause for concern before, in fact quite the opposite."

"Yes, but I think we are dealing with some sort of affliction of the mind. Such can do severe damage to a man's personality and his powers of reasoning."

"We are inclined to agree."

Holmes lit himself a fresh pipe. "We have all of our answers, gentlemen. However I will always be curious as to just how many poor fellows fell at the hands of these men."

"That, I am afraid, will never be known. It will simply be recorded in the news as a minor outbreak of disease. The paper-reading public will have little interest in the fates of cabmen and labourers." John spoke with a sigh; it saddened him to think that this was so.

We all took a few sombre moments.

"What will happen to them?" I asked. I had little sympathy for Southton, and not a great deal for Warbrick-Smith. For whatever their intentions, there could have not been any doubt in their minds that what they were doing was most decidedly wrong.

"We shall see," said Lestrade. "The yard arm for the hired killers, certainly. Southton and Warbrick-Smith would be lucky to escape it too, but given their states of mind, I am not sure."  
"In any case, we shall be keeping this as low-profile as possible." John spoke most sadly. "Southton is ranting insanely. Warbrick-Smith does not say a word."  
"Given that he will neither eat nor drink, I do not think much to his chances!" said Lestrade, almost triumphantly. Unlike Holmes, he was wont to see crime as very much a black and white subject. He did not always see the shades of grey that could, on a much deeper level, drive people to do wrong.

"Well, gentlemen," said Holmes, rising. "I am afraid Dr Watson needs his rest."

I made as if to get up. "Stay there, Watson. You mustn't exert yourself."

Lestrade and John took their leave of us, and Holmes lit yet another pipe. He poured us a brandy each.

"This has been a most singular affair, Watson."

"Indeed."

"It is a sickening thing, when a doctor goes wrong. They had the knowledge and the nerve from their medical training to great evil when so they desired. The educated criminal is far more dangerous than a common thug."

"I feel ashamed that they were of my profession," I said.

Holmes nodded. "Let us hope that this is an end to it." And then almost as an aside, "I cannot thank you enough, my dear Watson, for your strength and fidelity. Once again you have saved me."

"Thank you, Holmes." I was moved.

Holmes sat back in his chair, and placed his hands behind his head. There was a most contented smile upon his face. He looked as healthy as I had ever seen him, aside from his bandaged arm. I was most relieved; I felt sure that he was now safe from infection. He was a changed man indeed from the black depression he had sunk into in recent months. His brains appetite for challenge had been sated by the case. I took a sip from my brandy, rather hurriedly, and in my prone position, it caused me to splutter. Holmes hopped over to me and took my glass.

"Are you all right, Watson?"

"It was just the brandy, Holmes," I said, touched by his concern.  
"Enough brandy for you, I think," he said, and placed my glass on the mantelpiece. "I'll get Mrs Hudson to bring your sugar water. Now I suggest you get some sleep."

Holmes sat back in his chair. I smiled to myself but decided to take his advice; though I was not sure I had much choice in the matter. I only hoped that his mood would last.


End file.
